


Worthy of a King

by mareebird



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Brothers, Coming of Age, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Loki confronts Odin, Mother-Son Relationship, Odinson Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 15:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19253728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mareebird/pseuds/mareebird
Summary: One day, you might be King of Asgard.But it seems unlikely.





	Worthy of a King

You were born a prince.

One day, you might be King of Asgard, but even though you are still young enough to dream recklessly about infinite possible futures, you have reached an age where you are beginning to understand that the odds are not in your favor.

For one, you are not the firstborn.  The Asgardian line of succession does not always fall to the eldest, but the fact that you still resemble a boy and your brother is already beginning to take the shape of a man is not helping things.  He looks like a king. He looks like  _ the King _ , like a younger version of your father, as his muscles fill out and his beard comes in, blonde and thick.

Lately, you are bitter about that.  You cannot help that you are a lap behind him, though you wish someone would take notice that you are not a child.  You might not have a beard, but your features are maturing, revealing the face you will one day grow into, a face which you think is not without its finer points.  Yet the facts remain, with your raven-black hair and body that grows up but stubbornly refuses to fill out, you do not resemble either of them. And unless the Norns change your fate, it is impossible you ever will.

There was a time when your brother did not seem quite so much older, a time when others addressed the Princes of Asgard and they were speaking to the both of you.  Now it seems that when you stand beside him, it is only is eye they meet and voice they want to hear. You have been relegated to the position of the Prince’s younger brother -- less than a prince yourself -- who is meant to be seen and not heard, and who occasionally goes unnoticed altogether.  

So you find yourself speaking less and less, because really, what is the point?  You try to find an alternative to speaking. For a while, reading fills your need for words.  You pour over tomes in the vast Royal Library. It brings you a smug sort of pleasure, learning so much more because you dedicate the time.  Your brother may very well be the one they want to hear -- for now -- but you will be the one who actually knows things. Eventually, out of necessity, they will begin to listen.  They will turn to you for wisdom and realize that they crowned the wrong brother.

If they crown him at all.

It would be so much easier if he was actually stupid, this brother of yours.  Unfortunately, he is not. He is almost smart, and when a handsome, strong-bodied prince shows even meager intelligence, it is embarrassing how quickly the kingdom assumes that his mind must be as bright as that face of his.

And it does not take long to discover that the royal court is unimpressed with your “bookish” knowledge, anyway.  They stare at you blankly. You catch some of them sneering. They call it showing off. You tell yourself that they are intimidated by how you surpass them, that they must ignore you, lest they feel an inferiority they cannot withstand.  You are no doubt correct about this, but it does not make you any more respected, or any closer to being King.

No, in their eyes, the sun shines on your brother alone, and over you, he has begun to cast his massive shadow.

It was not always like this.  It is true that you have always been younger, but there was a time when you were children together, and you looked upon your older brother with the same simple adoration as everyone else.

No, you loved him more than they.  Like a boy, you believe that being like him was the proper way to be.  You were raised together, you played together, you fought side-by-side, and in the naivety of your youth, you believed him when he said it would always be so.  It was a promise he grew too fast to keep. And you too slowly.

It was _The_ _Warriors_ fault, really.  His new friends. You hated how he began to leave you behind at every opportunity, how you suddenly ceased to matter.  Overnight, you became the _little_ brother and no longer merely the _younger_ one.

Most of all, you hated how in the right they were when they admonished you for not being able to keep up during training.  The peace of the Nine Realms rested on the blades of Asgard’s sword, or so the saying went. You were no warrior, you were a boy playing games.  In your quest to expand your mind, your body had fallen behind, and their ridicule stung all the more deeply because it was true.

But, oh, how it lit a fire in your belly.  You would learn to fight, you would create your own way: swift as the wind and violent as the sea.  It suited you. You became more than formidable, you became deadly as a viper _. _

You think they began to fear your talents.

And that is why they continued to belittle you.  They called your daggers crutches. You could not punch your way through your enemies, as your brother could, as  _ they _ could.  They had no need for your strange talents.  You were still a child, better off in the care of your mother.

But with regard to this, the Queen, your mother, made you an unexpected offer.  She had knowledge of magic, ancient magic, and when she asked if you might want instruction, you immediately became the most dedicated of pupils.

At first, it was simply to prove your brother and his boorish friends wrong, to show them that you had something of real value, something far beyond their grasp.  Your mother, in her infinite wisdom, had greater plans. She saw your ability, but she also saw hunger, a hunger to be free from the chains of your brother’s world.

You fall in love with magic so swiftly that it is nearly  _ carnal _ , and through your diligent practice, day after day, year after year, your love is purified, chastened.  You and magic have become one, and your brother and his friends begin to take notice.

They were not so impressed with your knifework, but they are delighted that you can conjure blade after blade from the ether.

Your brother begins to strategize with you, plotting attacks where brain and brawn come together.  You have every right to remain bitter, to accuse him of not seeing your worth until you could do what he could not, but your heart proves stubborn.  You have his attention again. Against your better judgment, you forgive him, because you are happy, and in spite of what he deserves, you never loved your brother any less.  You only hated everything that got in the way.

You find it within yourself begin speaking more often, with a voice much different than it was in your youth.  You might not look old enough to rule a kingdom, but you sound it, and you relish the attention this man's voice garners.  You reckon with every word before it leaves your lips to ensure that people will want to keep listening. And they do. You earn a reputation for wit and cleverness.  People compliment you by saying you have a  _ silvered _ tongue, which thrills you.  Beautiful people pay you attention.  Beautiful people tell you that you are beautiful, too.

_ Everything  _ becomes beautiful.

But in addition to a mother and a brother, you have a father, the King.  He alone will choose his successor, but in honesty, you are less interested in this than you were in the days of your youth.  If the King chooses his firstborn, you could hardly fault him for it. Your role in all of this seems to be traveling in a different direction, now.  Your brother will be known as a great king, if you are there to guide him.

But the King throws snide remarks, calling your wit  _ unwarranted  _ and your skill with words  _ duplicitous _ and, occasionally,  _ wicked _ .

You disagree.  It is no small thing to disagree with the King, whether or not he happens to be your father, but he has a mind that sees things in black-and-white or fails to see them at all.  It seems no fault of yours if he cannot understand what you truly mean when you speak.

Perhaps if he actually listened to anyone but himself.

But as the King expresses his displeasure more and more, the opinion of the court turns, for they cannot favor you while you have so obviously lost his favor.  You lose the esteem you have barely been given, it slips from your memory like a dream. And as your brother’s strength grows from impressive to the makings of legendary, their focus once more returns to him, their future king, and your brother’s focus again turns inward.  Your tricks are old news by now, anyway, and between you and your father, the schism grows. It becomes a wound. It festers. It burns.

It  _ hurts _ .

The distance between love and hate has narrowed to a slit.  It would be so much easier if you could cease to care about your father and his opinion, the same way you have  _ convinced  _ yourself that you have no need for the crown, but were he not the King, he would still be your father.  Your mother says you are too alike and that is what fans the flames of discord, but she has always been a peacemaker, too content to reside in the background.  Even the magic she passed to you she rarely puts to use, for your father wants to control that, as well. Everything is better kept in a box until he has need of it.

You are in a box, now, as well.

You will never be king.  You never had the chance.  From the first word, the promise of your potential has always been a lie.

_ You _ are a lie.

You realize this as you stare at your reflection one night, for hours, it feels.  The sky is pitch black by the time you come to your senses with bottles of red wine rolling at your feet, and by that point you cannot stand the sight of yourself.

You have lied about  _ everything _ : the boyhood dreams you abandoned, the life you live for everyone’s satisfaction but your own; the path behind you is so crooked that you can no longer see where it began.  There are branches leading to your brother and his friends, to the court, to that damned father of yours; there are none that lead back to you. You lost yourself in service of their happiness, their esteem, but each road led only to a ticket of prickling thorns.

_ You _ who are the little prick.  You deserved to meet this end, you life over before it began.  If you had truly been cunning or gifted or handsome, convincing a kingdom that you had worth would not have been so damnably impossible.  Your brother is not only the blessed son but the bless _ ed _ sun itself.  You are not even the moon.  You are nought but screaming in the middle of the night.

The dawn breaks as you crawl into your bed.  You do not bother to disturb the covers.

Your sleep, of course, is not dreamless.  You have too little luck and far too much wine in your belly for that.  When you eventually wake, you are not even fortunate enough to have passed the mid-day hour.  Servants enter your room as do every morning. You send them away with peaceful words -- more lies -- that disguise the fractured soul your body encases, not to mention the splitting headache.

...Thought you are certain they noticed the empty wine bottles, as one of them nearly trips going out the door.

You consider going back to sleep.  Perhaps you can starve yourself by never rising, but your mind is feverishly wild from deprivation already and it feels as though you are still dreaming.  Your body is weak. Eventually, you get up to eat the breakfast the servants left and to your surprise, you consume all of it. You are ravenous. Your will to survive is stronger than you thought.

And that is when  _ the plan _ begins to take shape in your mind.  It flows from little more than a drop, a tributary of your wine-soaked dreams, half-crazed.

No.  More stupid than mad, you tell yourself.  It is beneath you. Were you caught, the embarrassment would follow you the rest of your days.  Your father would never forget it or forgive you for it.

So what have you to lose?

A day passes, a day of refining the angles.  By the following morning, the plan looks different than it did when you first conceived of it, in quite the literal sense as you study your reflection.  The face looking back at you is no longer your own. It is certainly  _ not _ your brother’s, which  _ was _ your first impulse.  You would confront your father in the image of the son he loves.  You would have him explain to you how it was that his younger brother so lost his favor.

But the plan has changed.  You are not going to approach your father in the skin of that brother of yours.  It would convince him not. Your brother would never deign to bother the King over concern for you, a realization which brought fresh knifelike pain.  And fresh resolve.

No, this would have to be done another way.

Your father’s chambers, like everything in the palace, glitter golden, but there is a nonsequitous warmth in the space between these walls.  There are leather and furs and tapestries and beautiful art, things you struggle to associate with this man made of ice. Your father does not sleep here, but it is where he resides between the moments when he is needed.  Even he, for all his otherworldliness, needs a place to escape. It is his nest, and as such, there are none who may enter without expressed request, aside from the royal family.

It has been some time since you last entered these chambers.  You honestly could not bear the sight of your father’s falling expression, were it  _ your _ face he would see.  But it is not.

When you open the door, you are in the guise of your mother.

“My King,” you say, as you lay eyes on him in the far corner of the room.  It is a greeting which turns your stomach in more than one manner, though your mother often addresses your father this way, turning a formality into a pet name.  Your hands are folded together, cold with fear. You wonder if you will immediately be reduced to the laughing stock of the kingdom.

He, however, has been sipping wine, which cannot be anything but to your benefit.  “Frigga,” he calls you by name and you nearly breathe a sigh of relief. “Come, sit by me a while.”

To be honest, sitting is a relief of its own.  You quickly place yourself on the bench where he sits.  Your mother’s carriage is not yours; when  _ you  _ walk, you have often been accused of taking up the entirety of the path, but the Queen’s movements are precise and delicate.  You put to work what you have practiced, gliding your feet across the floor, never lifting so much as the hem of your dress, and sit beside your father.  He looks at you and smiles. It feels like a knife. Such an unfamiliar thing.

“Dearest, this isn’t a social visit”  You launch into the words you have prepared before your father can kiss you.  He may be cold, but he has affection for his wife. There is a serious matter I wish to discuss.  “A matter which concerns your son.”

“Thor?” he asks, placing his goblet of wine on the table beside him.  There is hope in his voice. Of course, he thinks first of your brother, as though he has only one son.

You do what you can not to clench your teeth, or at least not clench them too obviously.  “No, my King. Your  _ other _ son.”

At this, your father raises one of his white eyebrows, folding wrinkles in his face.  “Loki?” he asks, as though he seeks confirmation. Has he want of a third son, want of viable competition for his eldest as his heir?

“Who else could I mean?”

But then your father tips his head and frowns.  “We talk too much of Loki,” he says.

For a moment, you cannot disguise your surprise. Your skull draws back, your eyelids flutter, it takes several seconds to collect yourself.  “Too much?”

Your father, however, does not seem put off by your reaction.  He rises from the bench with a heavy sigh, taking his goblet with him as he goes.  “What have you to say?”

With a glance, you take in your hands, which are neatly folded in your lap.  In truth, they are all but frozen solid. “Well, since I talk too much of him, perhaps I have naught left to speak.”  You pause, staring into the fire of the hearth at the room’s center. “He seems… confused.”

“Confused?  Loki. That doesn’t sound right.  He seems quite confident.”

You swallow hard, suppressing the grim and sickly laugh that rises in your throat.  “I very much doubt that is the case.” It strikes you that it is far easier to say these things in a disguise.  These words would not have escaped your own lips. Then again, who would you have said them to?

“Confused about what, then?  Has he spoken to you on some matter?”

“No, he has not.  He hardly speaks to me these days.”  The words sting because they are not a lie.  You have been avoiding the entirety of your family for weeks, your mother included.  Her peacemaking ways twist your stomach into knots of late.

Your father, however, conveniently misses the point.  As usual. “Yes, his silence is always worrisome. I would prefer to know what he’s up to.”

“I doubt he’s up to anything,” you say a little too quickly.  The next words come more carefully. “In fact… I suspect he has withdrawn… out of misery.”

Again, your father quirks one of his ancient eyebrows.

You take a long breath, but it does little to soothe you.  Your throat has begun to burn. “It must be obvious to him that you prefer Thor.”

He moves his other hand to the side of his goblet, so that he is holding it between all ten of his fingers.  He stares at you and says nothing.

You go on.  There is no going back.  And frankly, his silence angers you.  “Thor will be your heir. It’s clear to all the kingdom.”

“I have not proclaimed anything.”  He nearly mutters the words. You notice his back has arched.  Is this anxiety you see, as he shifts from side to side. Is the King of Asgard squirming?

“But you  _ have  _ selected Thor,” you pause for a moment, almost enjoying the sight.  You twist the knife. He is your prisoner. ”Haven’t you?”

“I have!” he barks, bearing his teeth like an angry dog.  He does not appreciate your candor -- your  _ mother’s _ candor, you remind yourself.  He prefers to keep her in a box, as well.  “Until this moment, you seemed to agree that Thor was the proper choice.  Has your mind changed? Have you come to rally for your favorite boy?”

You flinch.  Some of his words feel like a slap across the face.  Some are a salve. In the end, it balances out and your composure hardly falters.  You doubt your mother would rally for either of her sons, or claim to have a favorite, but it pleases you that your father thinks so.

But you do not want to put your mother at risk of your father’s ire.  It is time to soothe him. “Of course not,” you say. “My love for Loki does not diminish my love for Thor.  I came only to ask a simple question.”

You swallow.  The King...waits.  His anger must be already cooling, which is reassuring, to a point.  It does little to calm the sick feeling in your gut, as you prepare to ask what you came to know.

You twist your fingers.

“What is it that makes him so  _ unworthy _ ?”  It is a word dripping with many meanings and your voice cracks, but it does not shatter beneath your weight.  “He has excelled at every study, he has honed fine skills on the battlefield, and while I respect Thor’s many talents, I would gently point out that Loki is not so brash.  To give the crown to Thor will surprise no one, but… Why would it shock the kingdom to pass it to Loki?”

Your father blinks.  And then, he blinks again.  His shoulders, which were high beside his ears, begin to drop and the flush on his cheeks fades.  “Because he is a coward.”

He states this so plainly, as though it is a simple truth.  It chills you to the bone.

“I don’t agree,” you say, or begin to say, because as you consider the fact that you are wearing your mother’s face and dress and speaking with her voice, you do not know how to truly counter him.  “How is he a coward?” you ask instead.

Your father begins to walk toward you, finishing his wine along the way.  He places the goblet on a table and stretches out his arms. You force yourself not to recoil, although every sinew in your body demands retreat.  But you are  _ not  _ a coward.  Even if he has already seen through you, you will not flinch.

The King places his hands on your shoulders.  His touch is warm. From the wine, you remind yourself.  You hate some part of you still longs for his paternal embrace, as his eyes move about your face.  You smile because you know you have to, wondering all the while if he knows who is truly holding.

“My son, Loki,” he says, “Is everything you say… but he knows not who he is.  Not yet. And his path will be much longer than Thor’s.”

You do not understand.  “And this makes him a coward?”

He smiles a little, and then he sits beside you.  He seems so relaxed, so sure of his opinion, so convinced his wife will agree, but you do not know what to say.

Coward?

You stare at your father.  He regards you -- your mother -- with what you want to call tenderness.  You fold your hands so he does not attempt to take them.

“Loki is…” As he begins to speak, it fills you with dread, though you were quite sure you had reached your capacity.  “...Loki is not ready. He looks to others to tell him what he should be. He performs. At times, he is quite convincing, but he is playing a part.”

You feel your brows knit.  Does he know? Is this some attempt at affection?  Your mind is swimming. “And Thor is ready?”

“No,” he says plainly.  “Which, I remind you, is why I have made no proclamation.”

“But it  _ will _ be Thor?”

Your father frowns, but gently, which is becoming infuriating.  “I won’t go on repeating myself.”

A tightness in your jaw has spread to your neck.  You look away and nod, you know not what else to do.  Your father is passing off an opinion as a great insight, but you cannot argue, neither as your mother or yourself, because (right now, you are willing to admit) you are playing a part.

If he has figured you out, you no longer care.  You rise. It is time to leave.

But your legs feel so heavy that they kick aside your skirts with each step.  You reach the massive doors and turn back, looking over your shoulder one last time.  “What, in your estimation, do you believe Loki will become?”

He tilts his head quizzically.

“You must have some idea, in your own mind.”

Your father shakes his head.  “Too many possibilities. I suppose it depends on what he chooses to do next.”

You swallow.  It feels like fire.  “Did he ever… Did he ever have a chance of becoming king?”

“Of course he did,” he says without hesitation, causing you to flinch.

“And he lost it?”

He lifts a shoulder, unreadable as ever.  “Nothing is ever truly lost.”

You regard him with round eyes.  He is an enigma. You are half-convinced he saw through you from the moment you entered, that he has been toying with you.  Or maybe he is more of a fool than you ever realized, convinced that his whims are right because they are his own.

You dip your head and leave, quietly, reminding yourself to practice your mother’s walk.  You hope against hope her face is not the first thing you see. Aside from a few guards, there is no one at all, but you are in no mood to celebrate a victory.  You remain in your disguise until you reach the doors of the Great Banquet Hall, which is empty whenever it is not in use, and your breathing echoes in the cavernous room as you finally cease holding your breath.

With your back pressed against the door, you return to your true form.  You become Loki once again, whatever Loki is, now.

The lighting in the room is dim.  It takes your eyes minutes to adjust, but you are in no hurry to move.  Everything below your neck seems to have gone numb and you cannot tell if it is a result of the prolonged illusion or simply the adrenaline charging through your body.

A  _ coward _ .

Does that word even mean what your father seems to think it means?  What have you not done to prove your ability in every skill and virtue?  What have you not cultivated to your  _ own  _ designs: your mind, your magic, your knifework!  It is not as if you have copied your brother or any other person; there were none to copy!  Even your mother’s teaching was merely the springboard to your self-education.

And your father has the gall to accuse you of not knowing yourself!  For a moment, you lost your sense of pride, but that was all, because your father insulted your talent and in the naivety of your youth, you believed him to be wise.

No, what he wants, what he has always wanted, was for you to study him.  To know him. To become him! But he has that carbon copy in your brother.  That is why he has no need of you.

At some point, you have begun marching down the Great Hall, along the length of the dining table.  The room is empty, but the table is always set. You stalk past the chairs meant for dignitaries, where your mother sits, where you sit, where your brother sits.  Yes, even his place at the table has always been higher than yours. One chair closer to being the king’s seat.

You stare down the place that the head of the table.  With the rage flowing through you, you could so easily cause the chair to explode.

You pull it out and sit down instead.  The fury inside you becomes still.

The King’s Place.

It feels  _ good _ .

You were born to be a king and you know it.  Your father must know it, too, or else he would not strive to remind you time and again that he has chosen your oafish brother.  Today was only the first time you heard him admit it with words.

But it is your birthright.  There is no law that says the younger son cannot end up in the highest seat of them all.

So you begin to work on a new plan...

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading. By all means, look me up on [Tumblr](https://mareebird.tumblr.com/). It's mostly Loki! 
> 
> Also, comments are always adored!


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